Danger; or Wounded in the House of a Friend

T >> T. S. Arthur >> Danger; or Wounded in the House of a Friend

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And he held out his arm to Blanche, who had risen from the table.
She could do no less than take it. He drew her from the room. As
they passed out of the door Blanche cast a look back at Whitford.
Those who saw it were struck by its deep concern.

"Confound his impudence!" ejaculated Ellis Whitford as he saw
Blanche vanish through the library door. Rising from the table he
stood with an irresolute air, then went slowly from the apartment
and mingled with the company, moving about in an aimless kind of
way, until he drifted again into the supper-room, the tables of
which the waiters were constantly replenishing, and toward which a
stream of guests still flowed. The company here was noisier now than
when he left it a short time before. Revelry had taken the place of
staid propriety. Glasses clinked like a chime of bells, voices ran
up into the higher keys, and the loud musical laugh of girls mingled
gaily with the deeper tones of their male companions. Young maidens
with glasses of sparkling champagne or rich brown and amber sherry
in their hands were calling young men and boys to drink with them,
and showing a freedom and abandon of manner that marked the degree
of their exhilaration. Wine does not act in one way on the brain of
a young man and in another way on the brain of a young woman. Girls
of eighteen or twenty will become as wild and free and forgetful of
propriety as young men of the same age if you bring them together at
a feast and give them wine freely.

We do not exaggerate the scene in Mr. Birtwell's supper-room, but
rather subdue the picture. As Whitford drew nigh the supper-room the
sounds of boisterous mirth struck on his ears and stirred him like
the rattle of a drum. The heaviness went out of his limbs, his pulse
beat more quickly, he felt a new life in his veins. As he passed in
his name was called in a gay voice that he did not at first
recognize, and at the same moment a handsome young girl with flushed
face and sparkling eyes came hastily toward him, and drawing her
hand in his arm, said, in a loud familiar tone:

"You shall be my knight, Sir Ellis."

And she almost dragged him down the room to where half a dozen girls
and young men were having a wordy contest about something. He was in
the midst of the group before he really understood who the young
lady was that had laid such violent hands upon him. He then
recognized her as the daughter of a well-known merchant. He had met
her a few times in company, and her bearing toward him had always
before been marked by a lady-like dignity and reserve. Now she was
altogether another being, loud, free and familiar almost to
rudeness.

"You must have some wine, Sir Knight, to give you mettle for the
conflict," she said, running to the table and filling a glass, which
she handed to him with the air of a Hebe.

Whitford did not hesitate, but raised the glass to his lips and
emptied it at a single draught.

"Now for knight or dragon, my lady fair. I am yours to do or die,"
he exclaimed, drawing up his handsome form with a mock dignity, at
which a loud cheer broke out from the group of girls and young men
that was far more befitting a tavern-saloon than a gentleman's
dining-room.

Louder and noisier this little group became, Whitford, under a fresh
supply of wine, leading in the boisterous mirth. One after another,
attracted by the gayety and laughter, joined the group, until it
numbered fifteen or twenty half-intoxicated young men and women, who
lost themselves in a kind of wild saturnalia.

It was past twelve o'clock when Mrs. Whitford entered the
dining-room, where the noise and laughter were almost deafening. Her
face was pale, her lips closely compressed and her forehead
contracted with pain. She stood looking anxiously through the room
until she saw her son leaning against the wall, with a young lady
standing in front of him holding a glass in her hand which she was
trying to induce him to take. One glance at the face of Ellis told
her too plainly his sad condition.

To go to him and endeavor to get him away Mrs. Whitford feared might
arouse his latent pride and make him stubborn to her wishes.

"You see that young man standing against the wall?" she said to one
of the waiters.

"Mr. Whitford do you mean?" asked the waiter.

"Yes," she replied. "Go to him quietly, and say that his mother is
going home and wants him. Speak low, if you please."

Mrs. Whitford stood with a throbbing heart as the waiter passed down
the room. The tempter was before her son offering the glass of wine,
which he yet refused. She saw him start and look disconcerted as the
waiter spoke to him, then wave the glass of wine aside. But he did
not stir from him place.

The waiter came back to Mrs. Whitford:

"He says don't wait for him, ma'am."

The poor mother felt an icy coldness run along her nerves. For some
moments she stood irresolute, and then went back to the parlor. She
remained there for a short time, masking her countenance as best she
could, and then returned to the dining-room, where noise and
merriment still prevailed. She did not at first see her son, though
her eyes went quickly from face to face and from form to form. She
was about retiring, under the impression that he was not there, when
the waiter to whom she had spoken before said to her:

"Are you looking for Mr. Whitford?"

There was something in his voice that made her heart stand still.

"Yes," she replied.

"You will find him at the lower end of the room, just in the
corner," said the man.

Mrs. Whitford made her way to the lower end of the room. Ellis was
sitting in a chair, stupid and maudlin, and two or three thoughtless
girls were around his chair laughing at his drunken efforts to be
witty. The shocked mother did not speak to him, but shrunk away and
went gliding from the room. At the door she said to the waiter who
had followed her out, drawn by a look she gave him:

"I will be ready to go in five minutes, and I want Mr. Whitford to
go with me. Get him down to the door as quietly as you can."

The waiter went back into the supper-room, and with a tact that came
from experience in cases similar to this managed to get the young
man away without arousing his opposition.

Five minutes afterward, as Mrs. Whitford sat in her carriage at the
door of Mr. Birtwell's palace home, her son was pushed in, half
resisting, by two waiters, so drunk that his wretched mother had to
support him with her arm all the way home. Is it any wonder that in
her aching heart the mother cried out, "Oh, that he had died a baby
on my breast"?

CHAPTER XI.

AMONG the guests at Mr. and Mrs. Birtwell's was an officer holding a
high rank in the army, named Abercrombie. He had married, many years
before, a lady of fine accomplishments and rare culture who was
connected with one of the oldest families in New York. Her
grandfather on her mother's side had distinguished himself as an
officer in the Revolutionary war; and on her father's side she could
count statesmen and lawyers whose names were prominent in the early
history of our country.

General Abercrombie while a young man had fallen into the vice of
the army, and had acquired the habit of drinking.

The effects of alcohol are various. On some they are seen in the
bloated flesh and reddened eyes. Others grow pale, and their skin
takes on a dead and ashen hue. With some the whole nervous system
becomes shattered; while with others organic derangements, gout,
rheumatism and kindred evils attend the assimilation of this poison.

Quite as varied are the moral and mental effects of alcoholic
disturbance. Some are mild and weak inebriates, growing passive or
stupid in their cups. Others become excited, talkative and
intrusive; others good-natured and merry; not a few coarse,
arbitrary, brutal and unfeeling; and some jealous, savage and
fiend-like.

Of the last-named class was General Abercrombie. When sober, a
kinder, gentler or more considerate man toward his wife could hardly
be found; but when intoxicated, he was half a fiend, and seemed to
take a devilish delight in tormenting her. It had been no uncommon
thing for him to point a loaded pistol at her heart, and threaten to
shoot her dead if she moved or cried out; to hold a razor at his own
throat, or place the keen edge, close to hers; to open a window at
midnight and threaten to fling himself to the ground, or to drag her
across the floor, swearing that they should take the leap together.

For years the wretched wife had borne all this, and worse if
possible, hiding her dreadful secret as best she could, and doing
all in her power to hold her husband, for whom she retained a strong
attachment, away from temptation. Friends who only half suspected
the truth wondered that Time was so aggressive, taking the flash and
merriment out of her beautiful eyes, the color and fullness from her
cheeks, the smiles from her lips and the glossy, blackness from her
hair.

"Mrs. Abercrombie is such a wreck," one would say on meeting her
after a few years. "I would hardly have known her; and she doesn't
look at all happy."

"I wonder if the general drinks as hard as ever?" would in all
probability be replied to this remark, followed by the response:

"I was not aware that he was a hard drinker. He doesn't look like
it."

"No, you would not suspect so much; but I am sorry to say that he
has very little control over his appetite."

At which a stronger surprise would be expressed.

General Abercrombie was fifty years old, a large, handsome and
agreeable man, and a favorite with his brother officers, who deeply
regretted his weakness. As an officer his drinking habits rarely
interfered with his duty. Somehow the discipline of the army had
gained such a power over him as to hold him repressed and
subordinate to its influence. It was only when official restraints
were off that the devil had power to enter in and fully possess him.

A year before the time of which we are writing General Abercrombie
had been ordered to duty in the north-eastern department. His
headquarters were in the city where the characters we have
introduced resided. Official standing gave him access to some of the
wealthiest and best circles in the city, and his accomplished wife
soon became a favorite with all who were fortunate enough to come
into close relations with her. Among these was Mrs. Birtwell, the
two ladies drawing toward each other with the magnetism of kindred
spirits.

A short time before coming to the city General Abercrombie, after
having in a fit of drunken insanity come near killing his wife,
wholly abandoned the use of intoxicants of every kind. He saw in
this his only hope. His efforts to drink guardedly and temperately
had been fruitless. The guard was off the moment a single glass of
liquor passed his lips, and, he came under the influence of an
aroused appetite against which resolution set itself feebly and in
vain.

Up to the evening of this party at Mr. Birtwell's General
Abercrombie had kept himself free from wine, and people who knew
nothing of his history wondered at his abstemiousness. When invited
to drink, he declined in a way that left no room for the invitation
to be repeated. He never went to private entertainments except in
company with his wife, and then he rarely took any other lady to the
supper-room.

The new hope born in the sad heart of Mrs. Abercrombie had grown
stronger as the weeks and months went by. Never for so long a time
had the general stood firm. It looked as, if he had indeed gained
the mastery over an appetite which at one time seemed wholly to have
enslaved him.

With a lighter heart than usual on such occasions, Mrs. Abercrombie
made ready for the grand entertainment, paying more than ordinary
attention to her toilette. Something of her old social and personal
pride came back into life, giving her face and bearing the dignity
and prestige worn in happier days. As she entered the drawing-room
at Mr. and Mrs. Birtwell's, leaning on her husband's arm, a ripple
of admiration was seen on many faces, and the question, "Who is
she?" was heard on many lips. Mrs. Abercrombie was a centre of
attraction that evening, and no husband could have been prouder of
such a distinction for his wife than was the general. He, too, found
himself an object of interest and attention. Mr. Birtwell was a man
who made the most of his guests, and being a genuine _parvenu_, did
not fail through any refinement of good breeding in advertising to
each other the merits or achievements of those he favored with
introductions. If he presented a man of letters to an eminent
banker, he informed each in a word or two of the other's
distinguished merits. An officer would be complimented on his rank
or public service, a scientist on his last book or essay, a leading
politician on his statesmanship. At Mr. Birtwell's you always found
yourself among men with more in them than you had suspected, and
felt half ashamed of your ignorance in regard to their great
achievements.

General Abercrombie, like many others that evening, felt unusually
well satisfied with himself. Mr. Birtwell complimented him whenever
they happened to meet, sometimes on his public services and
sometimes on the "sensation" that elegant woman Mrs. Abercrombie was
making. He grew in his own estimation under the flattering
attentions of his host, and felt a manlier pride swelling in his
heart than he had for some time known. His bearing became more
self-poised, his innate sense of strength more apparent. Here was a
man among men.

This was the general's state of mind when, after an hour, or two of
social intercourse, he entered the large supper-room, whither he
escorted a lady. He had not seen his wife for half an hour. If she
had been, as usual on such occasions, by his side, he would have
been on guard. But the lady who leaned on his arm was not his good
angel. She was a gay, fashionable woman, and as fond of good eating
and drinking as any male epicure there. The general was polite and
attentive, and as prompt as any younger gallant in the work of
supplying his fair companion with the good things she was so ready
to appropriate.

"Will you have a glass of champagne?"

Of course she would. Her eyebrows arched a little in surprise at the
question. The general filled a glass and placed it in her hand. Did
she raise it to her lips? No; she held it a little extended, looking
at him with an expression which said, "I will wait for you."

For an instant General Abercrombie felt as if be were sinking
through space. Darkness and fear were upon him. But there was no
time for indecision. The lady stood holding her glass and looking at
him fixedly. An instant and the struggle was over. He turned to the
table and filled another glass. A smile and a bow, and then, a
draught that sent the blood leaping along his veins with a hot and
startled impulse.

Mrs. Abercrombie, who had entered the room a little while before,
and was some distance from the place where her husband stood, felt
at the moment a sudden chill and weight fall upon her heart. A
gentleman who was talking to her saw her face grow pale and a look
that seemed like terror come into he eyes.

"Are you ill, Mrs. Abercrombie?" he asked, in some alarm.

"No," she replied. "Only a slight feeling of faintness. It is gone
now;" and she tried to recover herself.

"Shall I take you from the room?" asked the gentleman, seeing that
the color did not come back to her face.

"Oh no, thank you."

"Let me give you a glass of wine."

But she waved her hand with a quick motion, saying, "Not wine; but a
little ice water."

She drank, but the water did not take the whiteness from her lips
nor restore the color to her cheeks. The look of dread or fear kept
in her eyes, and her companion saw her glance up and down the room
in a furtive way as if in anxious search for some one.

In a few moments Mrs. Abercrombie was able to rise in some small
degree above the strange impression which had fallen upon her like
the shadow of some passing evil; but the rarely flavored dishes, the
choice fruits, confections and ices with which she was supplied
scarcely passed her lips. She only pretended to eat. Her ease of
manner and fine freedom of conversation were gone, and the gentleman
who had been fascinated by her wit, intelligence and frank womanly
bearing now felt an almost repellant coldness.

"You cannot feel well, Mrs. Abercrombie," he said. "The air is close
and hot. Let me take you back to the parlors."

She did not reply, nor indeed seem to hear him. Her eyes had become
suddenly arrested by some object a little way off, and were fixed
upon it in a frightened stare. The gentleman turned and saw only her
husband in lively conversation with a lady. He had a glass of wine
in his hand, and was just raising it to his lips.

"Jealous!" was the thought that flashed through his mind. The
position was embarrassing. What could he say? In the next moment
intervening forms hid those of General Abercrombie and his fair
companion. Still as a statue, with eyes that seemed staring into
vacancy, Mrs. Abercrombie remained for some moments, then she drew
her hand within the gentleman's arm and said in a low voice that was
little more than a hoarse whisper:

"Thank you; yes, I will go back to the parlors."

They retired from the room without attracting notice.

"Can I do anything for you?" asked the gentleman as he seated her on
a sofa in one of the bay-windows where she was partially concealed
from observation.

"No, thank you," she answered, with regaining self-control. She then
insisted on being left alone, and with a decision of manner that
gave her attendant no alternative but compliance.

The gentleman immediately returned to the supper-room. As he joined
the company there he met a friend to whom he said in a
half-confidential way: "Do you know anything about General
Abercrombie's relations with his wife?

"What do you mean?" inquired the friend, with evident surprise.

"I saw something just now that looks very suspicious."

"What?"

"I came here with Mrs. Abercrombie a little while ago, and was
engaged in helping her, when I saw her face grow deadly pale.
Following her eyes, I observed them fixed on the general, who was
chatting gayly and taking wine with a lady."

"What! taking wine did you say?"

The gentleman was almost as much surprised at the altered manner of
his friend as he had been with that of Mrs. Abercrombie:

"Yes; anything strange in that?"

"Less strange than sad, was replied. "I don't wonder you saw the
color go out of Mrs. Abercrombie's face."

"Why so? What does it mean?"

"It means sorrow and heartbreak."

"You surprise and pain me. I thought of the lady by his side, not of
the glass of wine in his hand."

The two men left the crowded supper-room in order to be more alone.

"You know something of the general's life and habits?"

"Yes."

"He has not been intemperate, I hope?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I am pained to hear you say so."

"Drink is his besetting sin, the vice that has more than once come
near leading to his dismissal from the army. He is one of the men
who cannot use wine or spirits in moderation. In consequence of some
diseased action of the nutritive organs brought on by drink, he has
lost the power of self-control when under the influence of alcoholic
stimulation. He is a dypso-maniac. A glass of wine or brandy to him
is like the match to a train of powder. I don't wonder, knowing what
I do about General Abercrombie, that his wife grew deadly pale
to-night when she saw him raise a glass to his lips."

"Has he been abstaining for any length of time?"

"Yes; for many months he has kept himself free. I am intimate with
an officer who told me all about him. When not under the influence
of drink, the general is one of the kindest-hearted men in the
world. To his wife he is tender and indulgent almost to a fault, if
that were possible. But liquor seems to put the devil into him.
Drink drowns his better nature and changes him into a half-insane
fiend. I am told that he came near killing his wife more than once
in a drunken phrensy."

"You pain me beyond measure. Poor lady! I don't wonder that the life
went out of her so suddenly, nor at the terror I saw in her face.
Can nothing be done? Has he no friends here who will draw him out of
the supper-room and get him away before he loses control of
himself?"

"It is too late. If he has begun to drink, it is all over. You might
as well try to draw off a wolf who has tasted blood."

"Does he become violent? Are we going to have a drunken scene?"

"Oh no; we need apprehend nothing of that kind. I never heard of his
committing any public folly. The devil that enters into him is not a
rioting, boisterous fiend, but quiet, malignant, suspicious and
cruel."

"Suspicious? Of what?"

"Of everybody and everything. His brother officers are in league
against him; his wife is regarded with jealousy; your frankest
speech covers in his view some hidden and sinister meaning. You must
be careful of your attentions to Mrs. Abercrombie to-night, for he
will construe them adversely, and pour out his wrath on her
defenceless head when they are alone."

"This is frightful," was answered. "I never heard of such a case."

"Never heard of a drunken man assaulting his wife when alone with
her, beating, maiming or murdering her?"

"Oh yes, among the lowest and vilest. But we are speaking now of
people in good society--people of culture and refinement."

"Culture and social refinements have no influence over a man when
the fever of intoxication is upon him. He is for the time an insane
man, and subject to the influx and control of malignant influences.
Hell rules him instead of heaven."

"It is awful to think of. It makes me shudder."

"We know little of what goes on at home after an entertainment like
this," said the other. "It all looks so glad and brilliant. Smiles,
laughter, gayety, enjoyment, meet you at every turn. Each one is at
his or her best. It is a festival of delight. But you cannot at this
day give wine and brandy without stint to one or two or three
hundred men and women of all ages, habits, temperaments and
hereditary moral and physical conditions without the production of
many evil consequences. It matters little what the social condition
may be; the hurt of drink is the same. The sphere of respectability
may and does guard many. Culture and pride of position hold others
free from undue sensual indulgence. But with the larger number the
enticements of appetite are as strong and enslaving in one grade of
society as in another, and the disturbance of normal conditions as
great. And so you see that the wife of an intoxicated army officer
or lawyer or banker may be in as much danger from his drunken and
insane fury, when alone with him and unprotected, as the wife of a
street-sweeper or hod-carrier."

"I have never thought of it in that way."

"No, perhaps not. Cases of wife-beating and personal injuries, of
savage and frightful assaults, of terrors and sufferings endured
among the refined and educated, rarely if ever come to public
notice. Family pride, personal delicacy and many other
considerations seal the lips in silence. But there are few social
circles in which it is not known that some of its members are sad
sufferers because of a husband's or a father's intemperance, and
there are many, many families, alas! which have always in their
homes the shadow of a sorrow that embitters everything. They hide it
as best they can, and few know or dream of what they endure."

Dr. Angier joined the two men at this moment, and heard the last
remark. The speaker added, addressing him:

"Your professional experience will corroborate this, Dr. Angier."

"Corroborate what?" he asked, with a slight appearance of evasion in
his manner.

"We were speaking of the effects of intemperance on the more
cultivated and refined classes, and I said that it mattered little
as to the social condition; the hurt of drink was the same and the
disturbance of normal conditions as great in one class of society as
in another, that a confirmed inebriate, when under the influence of
intoxicants, lost all idea of respectability or moral
responsibility, and would act out his insane passion, whether he
were a lawyer, an army officer or a hod-carrier. In other words,
that social position gave the wife of an inebriate no immunity from
personal violence when alone with her drunken husband."

Dr. Angier did not reply, but his face became thoughtful.

"Have you given much attention to the pathology of drunkenness?"
asked one of the gentlemen.

"Some; not a great deal. The subject is one of the most perplexing
and difficult we have to deal with."

"You class intemperance with diseases, do you not?"

"Yes; certain forms of it. It may be hereditary or acquired like any
other disease. One man may have a pulmonary, another a bilious and
another a dypso-maniac diathesis, and an exposure to exciting causes
in one case is as fatal to health as in the other. If there exist a
predisposition to consumption, the disease will be developed under
peculiar morbific influences which would have no deleterious effect
upon a subject not so predisposed. The same law operates as
unerringly in the inherited predisposition to intemperance. Let the
man with a dypso-maniac diathesis indulge in the use of intoxicating
liquors, and he will surely become a drunkard. There is no more
immunity for him than for the man who with tubercles in his lungs
exposes himself to cold, bad air and enervating bodily conditions."

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